


The Child Corrupted

by lexicale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Child Abuse, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 06:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lexicale/pseuds/lexicale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam grew up in Master Azazel's house -- he doesn't know any different kind of world. When a hunter named Dean Winchester frees him, he doesn't even know that he's free. In his mind, he merely has a new master. Dean, of course, is oblivious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Child Corrupted

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Non-graphic references to past child abuse and non-con, slave!fic. Graphic sex.
> 
> Sam is 16 in this fic. Dean is 21.

The weapons looked good.

They laid on the table, all carefully arranged, one next to the other and gleaming a little with polish. Sam had of course taken a cloth to them to dry off the worse of it -- the oil kept the metal from rusting, but too much made for a slippery grip, and that was even worse. The knives were sharpened and scrubbed of all old blood and dirt, all the things that had collected in the grooves. They were _awful_ when Sam first got here, but it had been two weeks now, and he cleaned them every few days. The first time took hours, but these days he usually only spent a little while on it.

He was going to leave them out to finish drying while he did the laundry and pack them away when he got back -- there was no good in him having taken out everything and leaving it there, after all. When the master came back, he might need to leave in a hurry. It hadn't happened yet, but it could, and Sam believed in accounting for all possible outcomes.

It was his job to make sure that everything was accounted for.

He spent the next fifteen minutes sorting out the laundry into colors and whites, always doing a thorough job, even though Master had told him it didn't matter. Sam thought it always mattered, though he felt bad for sorting behind his master's back, as if he was doing something wrong. Still, it kept Master's clothes clean and well fitting, and if Master was none the wiser then it was alright.

Sam smiled to himself as he put the first load into a cloth hamper and the second into a garbage bag -- he took his small moments of rebellion when he could.

The laundromat was four blocks away from their motel, quite a walk for him, and he had to admit, it made him nervous. His old master, the master with the yellow eyes, had all the amenities in his large house -- a house which Sam had never been outside of, in his memory, until his new master, the hunter, had shown up two weeks ago, a strange gun in his hands(a gun that even Sam's master feared, and that was quite a thing) and words of angry vengeance on his tongue.

It was very apparent that the hunter hadn't expected to find anyone else there, or, at least, certainly not an unpossessed boy. Sam remembered being curled in the closet, having watched his master, the master he'd belonged to his whole life, shot dead, something he wouldn't have believed possible only a few moments before, and the hunter yanking the door open, so fast it almost came off of its hinges and it shrieked awfully.

Sam had clutched his knees and not looked up, but he'd heard the click of the gun being cocked, the chamber revolving to align the next bullet with the barrel. He was a smart boy, Master had always said. He read books. He'd cleaned and cared for many guns. He knew what that meant.

He'd just been sitting there trembling when the hunter had said, unexpectedly: _Christo._

Sam knew what the word meant, obviously. He knew Latin. He just didn't know what he was supposed to say to it. 

Whatever he'd done, however, seemed to have been the right thing, because the hunter just said _Fuck. Fuck, kid...the hell are you doing here?_ and Sam hadn't known how to answer him, and hadn't known how to answer him since, two weeks, three state lines, and twenty five panic attacks later. 

He wasn't as bad now, but it still made him edgy to leave their motel and step out into the daylight, feet shuffling on the pavement like he just _knew_ he wasn't supposed to be here. Master had told him he was, of course, but Master said a lot of things that didn't make sense. He was a strange man, but it wasn't Sam's place to judge such things, only to obey.

If Master said it was alright to go out, then it was alright. 

Especially, Sam supposed, if he was taking care of his master's needs. 

The trip to the laundromat took a couple of hours. While he was allowed outside and a little bit more used to it than he had been, he still had to stop every so often and shut his eyes, to breathe, concentrating on the sound of Master's voice in his head, telling him _hey, it's okay, kid, just breathe._ Just breathe.

The laundry itself didn't take nearly as much exertion. He put the loads in and found a small space between the shaking, clattering machines and pulled out one of his old books, the cover long since worn off, just a bunch of pages loosely bound by fading glue along the back. Sometimes people would spot him and stare and Sam would become afraid, but then the buzzer on the machine would go off and he'd shoot up, go to move the laundry to the dryer, and the people would move on.

By the time he was finished and getting back to the motel room, it was early evening. He knew from experience that Master would be home soon. He researched during the day and did his interviews with 'civvies', and then came back to the room to talk about the case with Sam(or _to_ Sam, as it were), and then sometimes he'd go out at night to hunt. But he always came back to check in, and besides, he'd taken care of the problem in this town last night. They would likely leave in the morning and Dean would be back soon to check in on him and get some rest. So Sam quickly busied himself, making sure that everything was in order. He'd made the beds earlier, of course, but he checked for creases anyways, before carefully folding all the laundry into piles, both his and Master's, laying them out at the foot of the bed.

He packed them into the bags, always putting socks and underwear into the crevices of the duffle so that the shirts and pants wouldn't move and wrinkle, and zipped them up. He took out the soft cloth for the weapons and did one last pass over them, making sure they were all dry and ready to go, before packing them away as well. Master didn't have weapons cases like Master Azazel had, so Sam had had a little trouble at first(he remembered the first time cleaning the weapons, his shaking fingers, hesitating over the duffle, having no idea what the right way to pack a sawed off into a bag like this was, having no idea what to do, oh god oh god what do I do--) but he'd learned, and he used some stolen motel hand towels as packing, making sure that none of the metal touched. It would be awful if Master's weapons, the tools of his trade, got scratched up on the road because Sam had been careless.

When he was finished, all four of the bags(his, Master's, and the two supply bags) were in a perfect row on the table, zipped and ready to go. The only exceptions were Master's and his pajamas, one set folded and set on top of the pillow of each bed. The carpet was clear, the bathroom clean, and the beds in much better order than the maids would have left them(Master had told him, many motels ago, that he could just leave the beds, but in none of the motels they'd stayed in had any staff made them to Sam's satisfaction, and in one in particular the sheets were so dirty he'd had to remove them and take them to be cleaned before Master could sleep on them).

Everything was perfect and Sam stood in the center of the room, between the two beds, and nodded to himself, pleased.

There was only so much one could do with such low thread count sheets, with such tacky, gaudy decorations and such rust and lime worn faucets, but Sam knew such things were no excuse for laziness, no excuse to let things just go by the wayside.

Master always seemed a bit confused by Sam's cleaning, but Master Azazel hadn't even paid it any attention at all when it was done right. It was only when it was done wrong that Sam required... _looking_ to.

The clock on the wall ticked loudly and Sam glanced over it, surprised to see that it was already eight. He was a bit concerned that Master wasn't back yet, but also grateful that Master was a bit late -- he could have come in while Sam was still organizing, and Sam would have been so ashamed.

Still, there was the matter of what to do now.

He checked the room a fourth time, knowing it was best to use the time given him( _idle hands, Sammy_ ), but again finding nothing out of place: nothing left in the bathroom(save for their toothbrushes, of course) and nothing under the beds. Sam tapped a knuckle against his lips consideringly, glancing around. It didn't seem prudent to just stand around doing nothing, but there really was _nothing_ else he could see to do. Master Azazel would never have accepted such an excuse, but Master Azazel's house was _much_ bigger. There really was always something to be done there: somewhere to be dusted, a floor to be scrubbed, oven to be cleaned. Sam was very very good at getting blood out of the carpet.

He remembered, at that moment, that there had been a shirt of Master's that had had a nasty blood stain on it that Sam had scrubbed out, but as it was drying he'd noticed a small tear in the stitching around the sleeve. He went back to the bags, opening Master's and leafing through the folded items until he found the shirt in question, pulling it out without wrinkling or pulling any of the clothes around it, then reached into the side pocket of his own bag to pull out his small sewing kit.

He'd had a sewing basket back at Master Azazel's, full of every color of thread and plenty of needles and pins as well as chalk for doing alterations. Master Dean had said to only bring the essentials, though, so Sam had packed a smaller, more travel friendly kit. He frowned a little when he found he only had hunter green thread and the shirt was very clearly forest green, but needs must, and hopefully Master wouldn't mind too much. Sam threaded his needle and went to work patching the tear, double stitching to make certain that it held well.

In whole, it took him about fifteen minutes.

Master still wasn't home.

Sam began to pace in front of the window after he'd put the shirt away, and he glanced out the curtains every few minutes, eyes searching for the black beast of Master's baby, but there was nothing. Sam wrung his hands together, running his lower lip through his teeth again and again. Master had never told him how to get in contact with him, not that Sam would dare to presume to call Master, but Master also hadn't told him what to do in the case that he didn't come back to the motel.

And that was important -- because here Sam was and Master wasn't back.

He glanced uncertainly at the television. He'd never been allowed to touch any part of the entertainment system back at Master Azazel's, but his new master had said that he could 'turn on the tube whenever he liked.' Sam wondered, maybe, if this was a test. Maybe Master wasn't coming back because he was testing how Sam acted. He'd told Sam he could use the television and then gone away so he could watch from afar to see Sam dare to touch what wasn't his.

Sam wasn't scared of the punishment, he was used to that, and his current Master was _far_ gentler than Master Azazel(Sam respected his current master thoroughly, but no one could ever rival Master Azazel's...imagination). Sam just couldn't stand the idea of _disappointing_ his new master so thoroughly. To know that he'd done wrong.

He was determined not to disappoint Master. He resolved not to touch the television, giving it a triumphant look, as if it could know that he'd overcome its tempting black screen.

He would show Master what a good pet he could be.

Sam moved in between the beds and settled down on the floor, not wanting to wrinkle the pristine sheets on the bed, and rested back against the lumpy handles of the bed stand. He pulled out his old book again, unrolling it, and another page fell out -- for now he put it gently back in its place. Later he would find some glue and fix it. He was very good at fixing things.

When he'd lived with Master Azazel he'd dreamed of time alone. Even though he knew it was wrong to think such a thing, knew it was wrong for a pet to ever want to be away from their master, he'd enjoyed the hours when Master Azazel had had business, when he'd be in his office or even out of the house completely, and Sam could hours or even _days_ to himself. He would clean, of course. He would always do his chores first, making sure that the house was in perfect order, and he would always make sure that every meal was still cooked -- breakfast, lunch and dinner, served and ready on the table at the all the precise times that Master preferred -- and if Master didn't come home that day, he would throw the meal away.

But when he had enough time, when everything was done and cleaned and put away, when he couldn't think of (almost) anything else to do, he would go to Master's library and read. Master had said that reading was fine, good even, as he wanted his pet to be educated, and Sam didn't doubt him. After all, Master had had one of his inferiors to teach Sam to read, to teach him basic arithmetic. He wouldn't have done that if he didn't genuinely want Sam to read.

Those hours had been Sam's favorites: the quiet of the room with its tightly packed walls of books, no window to threaten him with the spectre of the endless outside and no guards to mock him. He would curl up with his nose in a book and just _read._ Sometimes, the first few times, he got lost, so completely involved in what he was reading that he missed the time, didn't realize how much it had run away with him -- but it had only taken three times for Master Azazel to break him of that habit.

But it was different with his new master. For starters, Master Dean never seemed to really get mad at him. Sometimes he'd say something, _seem_ mad, but then he'd smile and say he was "teasing." Sam didn't understand, but he knew, at least, that his current master was far less quick to temper than Master Azazel. And secondly, well...secondly. He _liked_ his new master. He knew it wasn't his place. It wasn't a pet's place to like or dislike anything -- just to serve as best as he could until the end of his days.

But despite himself, even though he knew it was wrong, he liked seeing his new master smile.

He liked making Master happy.

Making Master Azazel happy had been a fool's errand. One didn't make Master Azazel _happy._ One _pleased_ him. One met the criteria or one did not. It was a binary state. 

Sometime Sam had met it.

Other times...

But his new master was different. Master Dean could be made to smile or laugh, though he did so rarely, and he always wanted to get Sam to talk(and Sam was so so disobedient -- he didn't _want_ to be, he just _couldn't find_ his voice -- but that was no excuse for disobedience), always wanted to buy him nice food or nice things. He'd been so patient the day he'd pulled Sam with him out of Master Azazel's house, despite the way that Sam had embarrassingly carried on, clinging to the column of the porch as the world spun dizzy and yawning all around him

And it made Sam worry when one AM rolled around and Master still wasn't back. He didn't want to think that anything had happened to Master. He didn't want to think that he was _alone,_ a pet without a master to claim him, and the idea alone made it hard to breath. He clasped his book to his chest and waited. Waited as the clock ticked away, every heartbeat pretending that Master Dean was going to open the door and come sauntering in and tell him that he'd passed the test.

 _Please,_ Sam thought, eyes tight shut. _I'm being good. I'm being very good. Please come back._

But the door didn't open, didn't budge, not until two thirty in the morning, and Sam jumped half a foot before clamoring to his feet.

"Woah!" Master said, gripping the door knob, obviously surprised at Sam's sudden movement, and Sam wanted to apologize for appearing so suddenly, but his mouth just moved soundlessly, and he was shaking his head back and forth. He was sure he looked a fool.

"Hey, kiddo," Master said, after he'd regained himself, walking in and shutting the door. He glanced around the room and sighed, as if disappointed, and Sam's heart dropped. He tried to find what he'd done wrong, what he'd missed( _so stupid_ ), that had displeased his master, but he couldn't find it before Master started talking again, and Sam knew better to look anywhere other than his master's eyes when he was being addressed.

"Why're you still up? It's late," the older man said, and Sam wasn't sure how to respond to that even if he could make his voice work. Did that mean he was supposed to be in bed? Had Master told him that earlier? Obviously he had if he was asking why Sam was still up, and Sam had just been too stupid, too oblivious to notice, stupid, forgetful little slut-- He shook his head.

He didn't go straight to bed, though, because Master was home and would want attending to before settling in. It wouldn't do to leave Master to care for it himself. Sam would get into bed once Master was settled.

He moved over to lift his hands, taking the collar of his master's jacket from behind, gently sliding it from his master's shoulders, and he heard the older man say _'umm,'_ as he did so, but he didn't fight Sam, so Sam figured he was doing the right thing. He flapped the jacket to air it out(leather, couldn't go in the wash, but he'd oil it later -- keep the skin supple and dry out any fragrance) when he caught a whiff of something other than bar smoke and grave ash. He fought the temptation to bring the jacket to his nose but what he'd smelled was similar to Master Azazel's cologne, and Sam's thumb rubbed over something greasy.

He glanced down to look at the jacket in his hand, seeing the red of something -- blood? No, too thick -- rubbed off on his skin. He looked at it and pressed his fingers together, moving back and forth to test its consistency before his eyebrows jerked up in realization: lipstick. He remembered cleaning it off of cups whenever Master Azazel's daughter, Meg, came to visit.

Master Dean had been with a _girl._

Sam's eyes flashed over to Master who was getting himself ready for bed(he preferred that, Sam always had to remind himself -- Master got upset and uncomfortable when Sam tried to help him) and he could see the signs of it on him. Reddened, slick lips, deep, dark-blown pupils, a thin sheen of sweat across his cheeks and brow...

Master had found someone else's pet to use.

Master was so disgusted by him, so _uninterested in him,_ that he'd gone out and made use of someone else's pet. Sam was so awful, such an _awful,_ undesirable pet that he wasn't even good enough to be used.

The thought was crippling, and for a second, a heartbeat, he pulled the jacket to his chest, as if he could embrace it, and he struggled to breathe, his eyes watering. He'd always known he was a stupid, selfish creature. He'd always known that he was long and coltish and not particularly attractive, not pleasing to the eyes like a good master might want, but he'd never thought he was _that_ repulsive. Even Master Azazel had made good use of him. 

"Hey, kid?" Master's voice broke through, and Sam sucked in a breath, not wanting to be so involved in his own silly pain that he'd miss his master's summons, and he raised his head, throat feeling wet and tight, and he belatedly realized he was still clutching the leather of Master's jacket to his chest.

Master Dean glanced him over, one eyebrow raised, and walked over, putting a hand out on Sam's shoulder, and just the touch, the weight, the warmth, would have made Sam giddy any other night. Tonight it did little to ease his mood.

Master reached out and took his jacket.

"Hey... It's okay. I know shit's hard. Bad dreams, maybe? Well, it's alright. The bastard's dead. Whatever he did to you and your family, it's over. You can get over this, okay? We're gonna figure this out together, and when you're ready, you can tell me who you are. Now, go on and get into your bed. I'll be right here if you need me." He stood there for a moment, staring into Sam's eyes, intent and totally missing what was going on, but Sam nodded once obediently. He watched as Master tossed the jacket over the back of a chair before stripping his clothing off into piles on the floor.

Sam moved around him and over to his bed, the one further from the door. He'd gotten into bed with Master the first night, like he thought was right, but Master had given him a strange look and told him that he had his _own_ bed. It was strange, but it wasn't Sam's place to question, just to obey, and since then he'd slept alone in the second bed. It was weird, and had made him feel vaguely unwanted, but nothing like _this._

He paused when he reached for his pajamas, though -- what if Master was so repulsed by him that he didn't want to see Sam's malformed body? What if Sam should go and change in the bathroom and spare Master the displeasure? Sam swallowed and carefully removed his shirt, folding it neatly and laying it on the bed. Then he picked up his night shirt and pulled it on. He didn't hear Master making any sounds behind him, so he quickly did the same with his pants and underwear, pulling on the soft flannel pants that Master had bought for him at the Walmart. When he was finished, he took his folded laundry and placed it in the cloth hamper on the table( _no sense in leaving it looking a mess, Sam_ ) before heading back to his bed.

He lifted up the tightly tucked sheets and shuffled in, wrinkling his nose at the antiseptic smell and how rough the material was. He was used to Master Azazel's bed -- used to the feel of 500 thread count sheets against his skin, but he wouldn't want Dean to think he was a spoiled pet. He could get used to this, with time, and he wasn't about to complain.

Not that he _could_ complain.

And especially not tonight, with the revelation that he was so much more useless than he previously thought. He felt the sin build in him even as he thought it: he missed Master Azazel. He missed when the world made sense. The world had hurt, then, _burned_ \-- it was strict and regimented and so much less free, but it made sense. He had a routine to follow and orders to keep to. He knew what Master Azazel _did_ want and what he _didn't_ and he had it down so well these days that he barely ever got punished anymore.

Of course it would be then, when he'd finally perfected himself, when he'd learned all the rules and boundaries, that he would be thrown to a different, completely _other_ master, who never said what he wanted, what he didn't want. Never gave Sam any orders at all(except the ones he couldn't follow: _what's your name, kid? C'mon,_ talk _to me_ ).

And now Sam's complete failure as a pet was bare and plain to the world: his master wouldn't even come to use him. He wasn't even good for that. And if not that, then what? Master already seemed to find his methods of cleaning and caring for him to be odd(Sam still didn't know what he was doing wrong -- Master wouldn't _tell_ him -- but Master shouldn't _have_ to tell him how to do it right; Sam was supposed to do it right the first time without being told), and now Master was using someone else's pet for pleasure.

Sam felt himself tear up foolishly, clasping the sheets to his chest, curling up. He just didn't know what to do.

All the same, in the morning, he got up before Master and picked up Master's laundry.

There was never an excuse for laziness.

\-----

They traveled to a new town and Master dealt with a poltergeist. Sam read the books that Master kept in the trunk of the car and was quite proud of himself when he figured out how to deal with the thing by himself, showing it to Master as soon as he got back. Master was pleased -- told him _good job_ \-- and Sam felt like he was floating, like he'd never _been_ so happy.

It didn't last long.

That evening Master went out to a bar again and came back with a mark on his neck, a bruise left by lips and mouth. Sam wished he could know who's pet it was so he could go and scold her for being so impudent -- it wasn't _her_ place to mark a master, even if it wasn't _her_ master. If Master would only _try_ Sam, he would see how good that his pet could be. Sam would be so much better. He knew not to mark, not to struggle. He knew not to cry or whine, and he knew when to shift his body, when to lie still. He knew how to give pleasure at the right moments, the best moments. But Master Dean was uninterested.

Sam looked at himself in the mirror. Perhaps it was something unavoidable: the female thing. He'd learned in his books that humans seemed to have preferences for the shape of their pets. Demons didn't. Demons just needed a hole. 

Which brought up another worrying thought: Sam's new master was a _hunter._ A human who hated and killed demons.

And Sam had been a demon's pet for his entire life.

Perhaps his current master didn't want to touch a pet that had been taken to bed by so many demons. Perhaps Sam was dirty to him in a way that human's pets weren't -- Sam swallowed. He didn't know what to do about either of those things. He could no more clean himself of the touch of demon seed than he could change himself into a woman.

But that wasn't Master's problem.

It wasn't Master's place to change his preferences for Sam. It was Sam's place to change himself to suite Master's preferences.

It wasn't like he could go out and buy women's clothing -- pets didn't carry money, though Sam did have access to the laundry coins, and Master had given him that twenty when they first started traveling together -- and even if he could, Sam was fairly certain he'd just look ridiculous. He was skinny and could probably pass with longer hair, maybe, but he was very tall, already as tall as Master, if not a little bit taller. Besides, Master's life didn't lend itself to dresses and make up, and Sam was fairly certain that Master would be displeased to have to deal with all that.

Master liked things simple and loud -- _Like good ol' fashion rock n' roll, kiddo._

So Sam didn't try to change his looks, but he tried to be more demure, tried to keep his eyes low and his eyelashes brushing his cheeks. He tried to emulate the women he saw on the television when Master was watching(the only women he'd met in the house had been demons, and they were not at _all_ appropriate models for good pet behavior). He still wasn't talking, so he couldn't laugh like them or say the things they said, but he tried to walk lighter, to duck his head.

But Master just gave him the occasional strange look and go on like he always did: talking about his dad and hunting, about _aw yeah, kid, this one-- this is a classic, you gotta hear this,_ about jobs he'd done and crazy times he'd had and how things were going to be better now that Sam didn't have to live with 'that monster.' Which was all nice and Sam loved listening to Master speak, but recently Master had picked up a new topic: all the 'hot chicks' he'd 'scored with.'

Master loved to brag about the pets he'd slept with, loved to talk about how they were 'in the sack,' and frankly, Sam was horrified to listen. In one story, Master said a pet dared to slap him when he was asking to use her('pick her up' Master had originally said, and Sam had thought that Master had literally picked her up off the ground to carry her away, but it turned out that was how Master spoke of using pets) and in others they would climb on top of him or _shove_ him back on the bed.

They sounded like the most loathsome, undisciplined, poorly trained pets that Sam had ever heard of.

And yet _they_ were the ones his Master went to, not Sam.

They were untrained mongrels, unowned and sleeping with any master that came long and yet they had _Sam's_ Master in bed with them, while Sam lay awake and alone and unused.

So as much as he wanted to walk over and tell the pet over by the pool tables that she didn't know her place, as much as he wanted to tell her to not press herself to his master's side without his master's permission, Sam sat on his bar stool, one week and two cases later, picking absently at the thread in his jeans and wishing he had his sewing scissors to snip it off. He sat on his stool and just watched.

The pet on Master's arm was watching him play pool, Master perfectly playing the other masters opposite him at the table, and Sam knew that his master would win. It only took a few more shots before Master Dean pocketed his cash with an amiable smile, and it should have been Sam there, standing next to him, proud to let people see what a fine master he belonged to, but instead Master turned to the girl, pulling her into a rough kiss and she wrapped her arms around his neck, and Sam felt like everyone in the bar could see what a failure he was: an unused pet, good for almost nothing and a drain on his master's resources.

 _Look at that spoiled pet,_ he imagined them whispering. _His master is earning all that money to buy him food and shelter, and he's not even doing his job. What a spoiled, lazy pet. Disgraceful._

Sam winced.

His master spent a little while making out with the female pet and bought them both drinks. When they walked back to the bathroom together, Master threw a wink over his shoulder at Sam, and Sam felt his stomach bottom out.

Master knew he was watching.

Master knew he was watching and wanted Sam to know just how much of a failure he was.

Sam swallowed hard, looking down at his knees, hands clasped tightly together. 

He stayed completely still, save for the occasional tremor, until Master came out and they headed for the car together.

\-----

They had been driving due north and it was two days later when Sam overheard the conversation.

He was supposed to be 'in the room watching the boob tube,' but he'd gotten up to use the bathroom and had felt the need to stay and clean -- the place they were staying tonight was particularly filthy. Sam was scrubbing the worst of the lime deposits off of the faucet when he heard Master's voice float into him from the window he'd opened to let in some fresh air.

He knew, instantly, that he should leave the bathroom and shut the door. 

It wasn't his place to eavesdrop on his master's conversations like some uncouth street urchin. Master's business was Master's business and no one else's -- certainly not Sam's.

But all the same, Sam found himself frozen, just standing there, while Dean stood outside on his phone, talking.

"Yeah," his master said. Then paused. "Yeah, I know."

There was another pause and Sam's heart was thudding in his chest, his chest still and breath seized in his lungs, terrified of giving himself away -- of revealing himself to be the kind of pet that sat around in bathrooms overhearing conversations( _private_ conversations) that their master had on the phone.

"I do! ... I mean, I _do._ Crap." He sighed. "Pastor, you know me. I'm not...good at the whole patience thing. I'm trying. I really am, but--"

Sam glanced at the window.

"Yeah but I'm a crappy choice." Master paused again and Sam could hear a few wet steps -- pacing. "Well I want him to _un_ latch. Seriously, Jim, I don't think I'm doing any good here. It's been almost a month, and things haven't gotten any better. He still hasn't said a word. Hell, far as I can tell, he hasn't changed at all."

Sam swallowed hard. It was _obvious_ that Master was talking to someone else about him. About what a bad pet he was. Probably how much he regretted taking Sam in. Sam had been scared( _terrified_ ) in the wake of Master Azazel's death. Master Azazel was all he'd ever known, all his life, and then, suddenly, he was gone and Sam was trapped in a car with a strange man. A _human,_ like himself, and before then he'd never realized that there were human masters. But Master Dean had turned out to be so decent and kind, such an _amazing_ master that any pet would be lucky to have, were it even appropriate for a pet to think such a thing.

Dean's voice broke through Sam's thoughts, louder this time, and it made Sam jump.

"Right! Exactly! And if I don't know that, how'm I supposed to know how to _deal_ with it?"

He sounded so upset. So frustrated. And that was Sam's fault. It was Sam's fault for being there in the first place. For being a bad pet.

"That's one of those nice little priesty platitudes that doesn't really mean anything, isn't it?" Dean made a sound of displeasure. "I just...I can't, Jim. I'm not making anything better and I just..." He let out another long breath. "I was wondering... Do you think you could take him?"

And that was when everything in Sam froze up, breath and heart and everything going deathly still, and the world became a cottony thick place, a buzzing filling his ears. Dean was going to get rid of him. Sam was such an egregiously bad pet that his owner was going to get rid of him. He'd never felt so sick, so low.

He was something _beyond_ a failure, and he wasn't even sure that he was grateful that Dean was merciful -- that Dean was passing him off to another master(Master Jim, Sam's mind supplied) instead of just killing Sam.

When the buzzing in his ears finally died down, Sam heard his master still talking, but it was hard to concentrate.

"Pastor, you know that my dad's gonna find out eventually, and I love the man, but he's not really a fuzzy wuzzy self-help let's get over the mean demons together kind of guy." There was another pause. "Of course not! Did you not hear what I just said about the non-fuzzy wuzzy demon thing? I called him, told him I ganked the demon, and that was it. He _still_ wants to meet up for some kind of celebration. But I couldn't just... _dump_ the kid, you know? It's just, I thought by now--

"Yeah, exactly. And he's not. And maybe I'm just making things worse. I still haven't even found out who he _is._ Hasn't given me a damned name, and I couldn't find any local stories about a missing teenager or missing family. I've got nothing and I don't seem to be _doing_ anything, either. At least, nothing productive."

Sam winced. Master Dean had asked for his name so many times, and Sam had refused every time. It didn't matter that Sam couldn't seem to summon his voice up since Master Azazel's death. It was still his duty to obey his master's order and he hadn't. No wonder Master wanted to get rid of him.

"You take in strays all the time."

 _Strays._ Stray pets. Apparently Sam wasn't even going to a new master so much as a master that looked after pets that had no where else to go. Pets that were so ugly and pathetic they couldn't even find a master to look after them. Sam squeezed his eyes tight shut, feeling tears leak over the edges and down the slant of his cheeks.

"I don't even think he _likes_ me, man. He spends ninety percent of his time folding laundry rather than look at me. It's just-- C'mon Jim. Please. Please?"

Sam sniffed and glanced up, and Master thought he wasn't watching? Sam scrubbed at his face. Master _did_ seem to like forward pets... Perhaps the fact that Sam had just been waiting for Master to enter his bed had been a turn off. Sam had been assuming that Master Dean would be just like Master Azazel and that...that was wrong of him. A good pet assumed nothing. A good pet conformed to his masters's needs. 

A good pet wouldn't treat his new master like his old master.

"...well. That depends. Is it working?" Dean asked hopefully, and then a couple of seconds later let out a big gust of air. "You are the best priest, Jim. The best. priest."

Sam could still hear Dean talking but he wasn't listening too closely anymore. This was his chance. If Dean wanted a more forward pet, Sam could do that. He could be the kind of pet that Dean wanted to keep. And perhaps Sam was wrong, perhaps this would be the worst thing, the thing that would disgust Master and make him hate Sam, but Master had already decided to give Sam up. Even if Sam was wrong about this, it couldn't get any worse.

Unless Master was so angry at him that he decided to kill him.

But Sam honestly wasn't sure if that wasn't better than ending up at a home for stray, unwanted pets.

He waited until he heard Dean's footsteps moving away, then quickly ran the water under the tap, taking the soap to thoroughly scrub his hands and face, cleaning up any tears and mess, making sure his hands were fresh and soapy and not dirty from cleaning. He then rinsed off and took a towel to dry himself. A few stray strands of hair dangled wet around his face.

There wasn't much he could do -- both with himself and given his limited supplies in the bathroom -- but he brushed his hair and took off the flannel over-shirt that Master had given him. He took in a deep, trembling breath, then let it out.

This was his last shot. His last chance to show his master that he was worth keeping. The idea of initiating anything terrified him, made him _quake,_ but Master Dean wasn't Master Azazel and that was important to remember. He shut his eyes and just breathed. It was his place as pet to service the master he _had,_ not the one from his past who'd trained him. 

If he knew one thing it was that what he was doing now _wasn't_ pleasing Master. Doing _anything_ new was superior to doing something he already knew didn't work. If he failed...then he failed. But he was going to try.

He was going to be a good pet.

He was going to be a good pet and Master would want him.

He heard the door to the motel room open and shut, Master coming in from the outside and Sam's eyes opened, looking at himself in the mirror. He didn't see much there, nothing much of a person at all, but whatever there was he intended to give to Master Dean.

"Hey, kid? Kid! Where are you?" master's voice rang out, and Sam turned quickly to shut the small bathroom window, locking it before moving to exit the bathroom. He saw Master looking a little worried before his expression shifted to one of relief. "Hey, there you are."

Sam nodded once, not certain how else to respond to that.

"Hitting the head?" the older man asked, and Sam wasn't sure what that meant -- Master Dean spoke very differently than the demons, and sometimes Sam had difficulty keeping up. Still, his master didn't seem to concerned with a response, moving into the room and shirking off his jacket, tossing it over the back of a chair. He moved over to the door, checking the locks and touching up the salt line, always careful about security, before he walked to his bed, sitting down on the end of it.

He leaned down and began to undo his laces before Sam gathered the courage to move. It was made easier by habit -- by being used to taking care of such things. His knees came to the floor and he saw Master Dean's hands pause as Sam's moved in, taking the laces of the other man's boots in his fingers, gently undoing them.

"You don't have to do that," his master murmured, voice soft and a little baffled, but Sam was comfortable here. Comfortable on his knees before his master, his hands finally busy with caretaking. He was glad to keep his master's life in neat order, but he had to admit that he'd missed this -- the physical, hands on element of looking after a master. Taking off his shoes at the end of the day, putting a pillow beneath them. Master Azazel had particularly enjoyed using Sam's back as a place to rest his heels, something that Sam didn't get as much personal enjoyment out of, but it hardly mattered what he felt.

It was about serving his master. About doing what was right for the man he was owned by.

And Sam so desperately wanted to prove himself a good pet.

He slid the first boot off, placing it to the side, then hooked a finger into the band of the sock, rolling it down and off, and he could hear his master making some aborted protest. Normally, that would stop Sam in his tracks but he had to remember his resolve for this evening: to try and be the pet that his master wanted. More forward. More assertive.

His attention switched to the opposite foot and he repeated his actions there, undoing and removing the boot and then the sock, and his hands, fingers long and spindly, came to press to his master's naked ankle, feeling the shift of bones there, complex and delicate. They were warm with the heat of the day and he heard Master Dean suck in air -- perhaps at Sam's cold fingers. Perhaps at something else.

He could feel the slightly wiry hair of his master's leg against the edge of his fingers and he glanced up slowly, with some trepidation.

Master Dean was sitting there, eyes locked on Sam, leaned over and staring down at him, gaze heavy and dark, lips slightly parted. Sam had read of desire in his books, but he'd never seen it before. Demons didn't desire. They hungered.

Sam had always thought the two were the same until that moment.

He pressed up on to his knees, chin tilted up and eyes sliding shut as he pressed his lips to his master's, fingertips against the older man's knees. Dean's lips were slightly damp and soft and Sam had never kissed anyone before -- _he'd_ been kissed, of course, but never been the one to lean in and press his mouth to someone else's. It was so different from the feel of angry mouths against his own, licking and biting and taking, and Sam felt guilt swoop in his gut that he liked this so much more.

It wasn't about him. It shouldn't be about him at all.

He pulled back slowly, trying to gather his wits again, rein in his emotions, because he would need both for this, to do it _right._ His master was looking down at him as if spellbound, and Sam shivered, unused to the sensation of power and scared that he might like it. So he took a deep breath and steadied his hands, gripping his master's knees.

It was all about presentation. 

Master Azazel had taught him that well. It didn't matter how good the food tasted if it looked like pig slop. You had to make it all look _appealing._ That was true of food, arranging decorative pieces, and servicing a man.

Sam moved over his master's body with all the grace he could summon, sure it wasn't much, but feeling, perhaps, just the slightest bit of sinful pride at his accomplished body. If he was good for anything, he was good for this, and before Master Dean had proved just how undesirable Sam was, Sam would have thought it was his greatest skill. Master Azazel had never been a man for praise(or a man at all), but one of the few places that Sam had rarely displeased his master was in bed.

His hands ran other Master Dean's thighs, feeling the gritty roughness of the denim under his palms and he glanced up when his master's hand came to his chin, tilting it up.

"Hey," his master murmured, voice low and quiet enough that Sam might not have heard it if the room hadn't been otherwise silent. Master Dean swallowed. "You sure...?"

Sam blinked and tilted his head a little, confused. Was he sure about what?

Master's hand cupped his cheek.

"You really want this?" the hunter asked and Sam was _still_ confused, though at least this time he understood the direction of the question. The words all made sense individually, but grouped together like that...Sam didn't quite grasp it. It wasn't his place to want or not want anything. He was empty. A vessel for his master's will. He strove to be without desire, without aversion or passion. He was a bad pet because he was so emotional, he knew that, but he tried his best to restrain it.

But Master was looking down at him looking for an answer, eyes intense, and so Sam nervously nodded.

Because...yes. He wanted to be used. Sam wanted to prove to his master that he was useful, that he had purpose. That someone needed him. It was weak of him to admit, to have felt such a thing at all, but Master seemed to relax, letting out a breath and he said: "Okay... Okay."

And Sam had to assume that he'd responded correctly, because Master leaned down and pressed their lips together again, this time more than just a brush of mouths, soft and strangely quaint -- this time it was deeper, wetter, though still languorous, Master's tongue dipping into and out of him, as if lapping at the edges of him and Sam shivered.

While their mouths were otherwise engaged, Sam's hands moved up to his master's hips, feeling the hard creases in his jeans and the ridges of the denim, until he found his waistband, and Sam both felt and heard his master suck in a breath.

"Jesus, kid," Master muttered, pulling back to look down at him. Sam glanced up just in time to see Master's hand just before it slid over his cheek, fingers weaving into Sam's hair, and he was surprised. He'd seen the motion and hadn't flinched, knew better than to flinch, but he'd been expecting a slap for being such a needy, forward pet. Instead, Master touched him gently, palm cupping his cheek, and it was just how Sam had wanted Master to touch him -- with such intimate possession.

He couldn't believe this was working. He couldn't believe that Master _wanted_ him like this, so undisciplined and impudent.

Sam shifted forward on his knees, balancing some of his weight against the edge of the bed as he went to work, undoing the clasp of his master's pants and pulling down the zipper. Master's breathing picked up and his hand slid back further to the back of Sam's head, deeply buried in his hair now. Master's hips came up off of the bed for half a second, just enough for Sam to inch his pants down more comfortably. He could see the bulge of Master's hardness trapped inside of his boxers and Sam wet his lips -- it had been three weeks, but he hadn't forgotten how to give a man oral pleasure. 

He reached into the apex of his master's legs, pulling the swelling cock out from the folds of the fabric, finding it thick and heavy in his hand. He glanced up one more time and saw his master watching him with the strangest expression, one that Sam, with his near infinite vocabulary, found himself wordless to describe. 

Something heavy and intense, and emotion beyond the range that Sam had grown up with, an emotion that spoke to Sam on some human level, that he knew that he _should_ know, but didn't.

Whatever word there was for it, it was a human term that his demonic keepers had never passed on to him.

But Sam didn't need to know the word to feel dizzy with it, feel like his skin was buzzing. He wanted this more than he could describe. He wanted to do this for his master, wanted to please him and be useful again, as all pets should want. But, shamefully, it went deeper than that: Sam wanted it in ways that a pet should never want anything.

And he tried to put it out of his mind by arching over, back bending to fit his lips around the crown of the older man's erection and take him into his mouth.

Master Azazel rarely kept a body for long. He would switch from meatsuit to meatsuit whenever the fancy hit him and because of that Sam was used to servicing cocks of many different shapes and sizes -- and not always cocks. Master Azazel had preferred male vessels, but that didn't mean that he didn't like variety from time to time. So it wasn't unfamiliar to him at all to have a strange erection sliding over his tongue, through his mouth. He dropped his jaw, eyes mostly shut, and he wanted to give his new master the best, wanted to _prove_ himself. 

"Christ!" Master Dean cursed when Sam took him into his throat, far past where his gag reflex used to be, before he was trained out of it. Sam sucked tight, shifting his head slowly, and Master's hand fisted in his hair. For a second, he was trying to pull Sam back, and Sam was confused, before his tongue pressed sharply to the underside of the older man's crown, and Master moaned, his body leaning back.

From there, Master gave up his attempts at resisting the pleasure that Sam wanted to give, and Sam would have laughed at the thought it his mouth weren't so full. A _pet_ pushing pleasure onto a _master._ It was ridiculous, but it seemed to be what Master Dean enjoyed, because a few short minutes later he was moaning loudly, hand flexing and relaxing rhythmically in Sam's hair, and Sam could feel his master's body begin to tense, preparing for orgasm.

In response, Sam went down as far as he could, until the head was back in his throat and he had to hold his breath. The sensation must have felt good because his master's hips bucked suddenly, letting out a cry as his cock pushed just that little bit deeper and came, so far back that Sam couldn't even taste it, just swallowed when he felt the weight of come on his gullet. He stayed there, stayed still for each hot spurt of seed, wanting to give his master somewhere nice and warm to release into.

He stayed there even when they stopped, breathing carefully, the flesh in his mouth still firm with blood, and Master Dean was panting. Sam could feel it. The sway of his master's body as he inhaled and shakily exhaled, could feel the languor of orgasm passing through him, and Sam just stayed there, soaked in the sensation, until the cock on his tongue began to slowly soften, and he drew back. It slid through his lips, wet and shrinking, skin soft and moving independent of the flesh below it as it did so.

"...god," his master mumbled. "That was..."

And Sam wondered what it was, but he didn't get an answer. Master's hold on his hair was loosening, and Sam tucked Master's spent length back into the safety of his pants just as the older man's hand began to sweep tenderly through his hair. The sensation made Sam shiver a little, mindless with the pleasure of it, to be touched and petted this way, so intimate and tender.

Even Master Azazel had never touched him this way.

Firm or forceful, possessive, certainly -- Sam had never doubted his old master's desire for his flesh -- but never tender. Never with the careful grace that Sam had read about in his books, curled at his old master's feet in the library while Master Azazel worked.

Slowly, without meaning to, his head lowered, taking in a way he knew he shouldn't but lulled by that gentle touch.

His head lowered until his cheek pressed to Dean's thigh, feeling the warmth of body heat radiating through the denim, and Master never removed his hand -- just kept stroking his hair, the motion seemingly almost unconscious until it wasn't, and the hand paused. Sam's heart stopped beating for a second, knowing better than to ask, better than to look for something for himself, but praying for it in his head until the weight came back, didn't withdraw, and settled firmly against Sam's scalp.

Sam let out a long breath, feeling good and sated and whole. Feeling like a pet well used, and glad of it.

"...damn," he heard Master speak, voice steadier now, calmer, but it seemed almost absent, spoken more to the air than to Sam with no expectation of a reply. Master had gotten used to Sam's silence. 

"Can't believe you did that," he continued, wonderingly. "Can't believe--...shit, kid. Who the hell are you...? Wish like hell I could find out. I don't know what the hell to do with you. I don't even know your name... I don't have anything to call you. What's your name, hmm?"

Sam felt completely relaxed, so completely at peace. Master's hand was in his hair and his cheek was on Master's leg, eyes shut. He felt _good,_ felt like he'd served his purpose. Felt like that nagging itch in the center of his chest was finally abating. Master's voice was so perfect, so soothing, and Sam wanted to do nothing more than obey. It was nothing at all to breath in and as he exhaled, murmur:

"Sam."


End file.
